Life Longing

By John Beach

A dead computer analyst and his guardian angel try to win themselves a secondlife in a broken, Viking world system left devastated and nearly emptied by the Ragnarök.

Conceived in the 1970’s and left mouldering in the would-be author’s mind for 40 years, John Beach’s Life Longing explores the afterlife of a very reserved, highly-introverted man thrust against some of the more obscure aspects of Eddic poetry and Northern literature. The man, a computer analyst, is aided in his quest for a secondlife by his fylgja—his soul mate—who has stood by him throughout his life observing his deeds and always advising him to be a better man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Beach
• Release date: Oct 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370865321

John Beach

John describes himself now as “the evolutionary result of Paperboy to Grocery Store Worker to Professional College Student to Magazine Editor to Computer Night Operator to Jr. Database Programmer to System Administrator to Computer Consultant to College Professor to Dean of Information Technology to Retired Old Guy Who's Really Not Old Enough To Be Retired.” He’s always been around writing and has used it daily in his professional life. He's used it in his leisure time, too, often when he plotted out D&D adventures that he and his players communally craft together around the dining room table and on Zoom. John’s always loved stories, always had them forming, churning, and reshaping in his brain. It wasn’t until he began closing in on an early retirement (for health reasons) that he began to get those stories out of his head and into text documents and then released into the world through ePublishing.You can visit with John on Facebook. He’d love to hear from you regarding his written work (and your hobbies), and he would greatly appreciate it if you could write reviews for his books. Ask him for free coupons if you need them. He only puts prices on his most recent books so that people will take them more seriously. The money’s not important: his stories and poems just want to be read.

Book preview

Life Longing

First Ætt

Chapter 1: Comfort for the Living

People don’t like to be woken this way.

Heedless of his conscience, Ian Strand began filming, observing life through the filter of the camcorder’s flipped-open digital display. Its 3-watt light source blazed into the eyes of Neil Lorenz, who, now no longer sleeping, instinctively clamped down the thinnest skin of his body. Wha … hut? What? His hands came alive, splayed away their sleepy numbness, sought, found, and then shielded his eyes. But, the flesh and bones of Neil’s fingers and palms did nothing to muffle the anger churning below, which resounded from the yawning chasm that was Neil’s dry, scratchy throat: Ian! Neil’s voice scolded. Stop it.

Ian’s traveling companion was now awake—mostly. And Ian was capturing the moment for later analysis, the first scene of what promised—to him at least—to be an adventure. It’s seven o’clock, Ian replied nonplussed, "klockan sju." Ian Strand was American, not Swedish, but he had a gift for processing natural languages, and he believed his pronunciation of sju would not betray him as an American—as a tourist from Minnesota—even to natives of Stockholm where the young men were currently vacationing. "It’s time to get up, Neil. Our rented chariot awaits, as does the locality of Nynäshamn."

Sick, is all Neil managed, mumbling within the cavern of his mouth before he rolled away and buried his earthly flesh beneath the covers of his hotel bed.

What?

Neil further squished his face into pillows he had layered beneath him the previous night. He huffed heated breath into polyester foam: "Sick, Ian. I… am… sick."

Ian pictured the stuttering of a steam locomotive braking into a railroad station and then giving up the ghost in one last chimney breath. Well… that sucks, Ian replied as soon as that fanciful image had plumed away. Ian stopped filming, switched off the external light, and lowered his camcorder. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. Ian re-focused his wide-awake brown eyes on the prone figure of his best friend lying in the bleakest part of the hotel room. Sucks, Ian said twice more, hissing sibilantly each time in hopes that sound alone might—through sympathetic magic—fire up the train boiler within Neil. It did not. Then Ian sat himself down.

His chair faced a small television perched on a cherry-stained chest of drawers.

Quietly, Ian.

Moving as silently as he could, Ian pulled and slid his recliner across the carpet, repositioning the chair against the room’s south-facing window. He fumbled then with the hanging cords that controlled its Venetian blinds. Those things never worked well for Ian, but these particular blinds had been hung between two panes of window glass. That’s clever engineering, he felt. No tangling. No need ever for dusting the slats. He manipulated the braided cords, used them to part the blinds just enough to provide a courteous level of early morning brightness for himself and none for Neil. Ian’s forehead pressed against the glass, which warmed quickly beneath him. He sighed for a few moments then he melded back into the chair’s cushioning.

But soon, Ian unfolded, nonchalantly parsed through a travel brochure. Neil and Ian’s plan for today had been to drive their rental car to Nynäshamn, then to ferry it across the Baltic Sea to Gotland. They would have eaten breakfast on the ferry then spent the next eight hours reconnoitering. Probably longer than that, Ian’s train of thought corrected itself. The sun tended to linger this time of year in the Swedish sky.

With nothing else to do but mourn he wasn’t doing it, Ian reread the Visby brochure. He studied its descriptive words and mentally brushed in details beyond the edges of paragraphs and images. That was another gift he possessed (or perhaps more of a skill he had developed). Ian embellished. He claimed it was because he couldn’t hear well. Born completely deaf in one ear, he had found, early in life, he needed to compensate for the gaps. He learned to process what was available from his environment and then would reason out, painting in what he felt was missing: which words had the highest probability of having been spoken yet not heard by him? Which missing sounds then made the most sense given to whom he was talking and for what reason? And always—mentally busy as such—the quiet boy had become a quiet young man, always listening, always focused and most always analyzing. Unless Ian felt truly comfortable, he rarely spoke up or shared his opinions. This may or may not help to explain him.

Deafness was also an excuse, he knew, although Ian did feel out of step within each social moment, often was uncomfortable because of it. He’d find himself a few seconds behind in every conversation, most communal activities. It had become—and was—easier for Ian to distance himself from new experiences, to stick within situations where he had already mastered the lexicon, better knew the word-usage probabilities. He was especially good interfacing with computers. He had developed into a quality database programmer and a fair systems analyst—despite that more than 80% of his job required that Ian work directly, personally, with the end-users. Such interactions, though—to determine customer needs and requirements—used a very specific, limited language set, words Ian would study up on in advance before he was likely to conversationally hear them. He was a thespian of customer-service skills. Any semblance of extroversion, any extemporaneousness Ian displayed was well practiced, a memorized drama he had considered and mentally flow-charted beforehand.

Okay—he was revising his collective thoughts now—it’s just a crimp in our plans. Adjust. Reallocate. The Visby castle, various island sites: Gotland’s museum, Lummelundagrottan, St. Nicolai Ruin—those would have to be scratched. Ian was loathed to miss out on the caverns and the cathedral, but he and Neil needed to be back here in Stockholm in two days to meet up with Oscar, one of their Swedish friends. And Neil likely was sick enough only to need a half-day to recover. Neil was a strong man and wouldn’t let illness keep him down for long nor to spoil their vacation, the first in several years for the two of them. So, even if Ian were the type of person to venture off on his own—and he wasn’t—he’d need to restrict himself to areas nearby this hotel, places that Oscar had already promised to guide them through on Wednesday.

Ian surveyed the dark emptiness of the blue-walled hotel room, eyed across the cerulean carpet. He and Neil hadn’t unpacked their bags on arrival. Plus, they didn’t have much luggage in the first place—were traveling lightly. Normally, Ian was comfortable with himself, was more at peace alone than during most every other moment. But here, away on vacation, he had none of his books, just two movies, and one new tablet computer (which already he had grown tired of using while on the 15-hour flight from Minneapolis).

Just because we paid for a rental car doesn’t mean we have to use it.

Ian considered the truth of this thought. A good plan made, money invested, and the initial steps taken, does not mean the plan need ever come to fruition. As Robert Burns had written To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough: The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy! The poem’s narrator, Ian recalled, believed the now homeless mouse still more blessed than the man—for she was touched only by the present. The man at the plough saw all her past efforts wasted and could reasonably guess her fate now that winter was imminent. Through no fault of their own, many plans fail, and sometimes it’s best for them to be abandoned voluntarily.

Ian liked being places, but he hated driving, hated traveling. The actual ride, the journey, wearied his soul. He was content to let friends like Neil drive him places. A major drawback in his being driven was that Ian had no hearing at all in his left ear. So, his riding shotgun was arduous for conversation—and riding and conversing from the back seat behind the driver was considered creepy and weird. Ian was still taking shit for having tried that chauffeur positioning when there were just two people in the car.

So… Ian once again bothered the blanket-wrapped lump on his friend’s bed, just how sick, Neil?

Neil murmured in the language known only to soft pillows.

Ian’s best hearing came from reading other people’s faces, from following the movement of their lips, the creasing along their mouths, the reasoning he perceived must be twinkling behind their eyes. He could do almost nothing with back-of-head moments like this, or during telephone calls, or even with conversations held in the dark. Ian never found it true—of himself at least—that if a man lost one sense, his other four would become stronger. But, since Ian had never known complete hearing, and still had some, it was wrong to say he had ever lost it. He had been born partially deaf. But what Ian had developed on his own was a tendency to panic whenever his senses ever were diminished further. That was constant frustration for him, humbling. He spoke up again, louder, "Neil! How sick are you? Should we cancel today’s plans or what?"

Neil edged himself onto one side. He did not feel well and did not carefully consider what he was saying (or to whom): "We’ll figure out something later, stay on an extra night. Or you go on yourself, and we’ll meet up on Wednesday." He fell back onto his stomach after that, expecting no further discourse. Neil’s role in this friendship had always been to be the active leader; Ian served more as consultant and trusted advisor.

Okay, Ian said, falling in line. He retrieved his tablet from his camera bag then routinely checked his work email, personal email, and social media sites—in that order. He started Web searches for obscure locations within the city of Stockholm, nearby haunts his friends wouldn’t want to take him: used-book stores, comic book shops, dusty libraries. Any of those, if nearby, could amuse Ian for hours. Plus, a long walk would be good for him, healthy. Part of their vacation was meant to be physical—forcing these two office workers to get outside. And, if needed, even a local bus ride now would force Ian to put his oratory and auditory skills into practice. If he got into any real trouble, Ian’s tablet computer had language applications and translation dictionaries installed.

The original plan had been to ferry across to Visby, and then drive their rented hatchback around the island of Gotland, stopping wherever it looked interesting, and then hiking or renting bicycles. Admittedly, this wasn’t a complex plan, but it had been Neil’s, and Neil had—and enjoyed—a nature considerably more ad hoc than Ian’s. Neil was an adventurer, a natural explorer, and an avid people-watcher. Ian smiled, knowing that much of their time would have been dedicated to slow drive-bys along the beaches, examining scantly clad Swedish women (and tourists found in similar stages of undress). Come evening, Neil finally would have begun searching for a place to camp, ideally in some free or relatively inexpensive location. All they had with them in the way of camping gear were thin blankets and inflatable mats. The weather forecast, though, looked good, projected to be warm and sunny, so no tent or campfires would be needed. If conditions worsened or if no suitable dry ground suggested itself, they would have found a hostel or just slept in the rental car parked alongside the road.

And, on the second day, Neil had agreed to follow Ian’s more structured planning: a walking tour of the medieval wall around Visby, a boat cruise near the Charles Islands, and venturing as deep into the Lummelunda caverns as would be permitted. Ian preferred the certainty of schedules and advance reservations, the comfort such things provided, but he was not altogether opposed to The Ways of Neil. Ian enjoyed their shared exploits, and he was thankful for Neil, for having a friend who would push him into new experiences—experiences which Ian would come to better appreciate later—upon reflection—when he was alone in a more familiar place.

There is no easy way accounting for what happened next. A likely explanation is that Ian carried a small locket with him, sometimes wearing it on a length of chain around his neck. He rarely opened it—nor was his life a constant battle with any urge to open it. It was enough for Ian that he had the locket nearby. He took comfort knowing it contained a photograph of a wonderful woman. On the inside front half of the locket, that woman, Mari Pierce, had left him a many-stranded loop of her red-gold hair. She was not with Ian anymore. Alive, yes, but she had moved on to a separate life and world without him. Ian missed her terribly and terribly often. He dreamt of her still, fantasized, remembered: how they had met at college, the early stages of mutual flirting, their first dates, the lovemaking, the misunderstanding, the unheard words. Mostly he thought about words he had never spoken, and he would try saying them now in his head, mingling them within the memories, reconsidering how important events might have played out if he had performed differently. He knew doing too much of this was creepy and weird. Also he knew it to be rather pathetic: his trying to relive and improve upon moments of life from miles and years away—from the back seat of a car, finally offering to drive.

A part of Ian, he felt, would always be connected with Mari, and he wished that they had remained close. The two of them had been good people—still were good people. They had been an interesting, fun couple, similar enough to each other to have a good foundation, yet different enough to complement and strengthen each other’s weaknesses. But theirs was no different a short story than most others. There had been an initial spark, a love and a longing for life together; their passion had been real, raw, and even animalistic. Some relationships never get beyond that, no matter how desperately a couple may want it.

You don’t need that locket. Let it alone.

While sitting in the hotel room, fumbling for an earphone from inside his camera bag, Ian had accidentally lifted out—and then opened—the locket. He knew he had it with him, knew everything he had packed for the vacation (and how much it weighed down to the ounce). It’s just he hadn’t been thinking about it—or her. The last time he had touched the hair inside had come one month after their breakup; they have bumped into each other at their University in the Student Union. They had talked—awkwardly talked around the obvious tension, the magnetic forces still at work swirling: both attracting and repelling them while also stripping the strength from Ian’s knees and legs. And, as that was happening, Ian had been more out of phase with the world than normal. Absently, he knew that Mari had spoken about some future meet up, a shared activity for them, but Ian hadn’t quite heard it. It had registered only after she had left, when Ian could think clearly again. But he had had no confidence to run after her, to win from her those missing details. Instead, he stood there deliberating the physical language of her departure.

Ian blew off his night class, walked himself outside the city on a long gravel road. And that’s when he had last touched Mari’s hair. It had been too dark for him to see the face he wanted in the photograph, but he was able to feel a smiling comfort when his fingers pressed against the rings of her hair.

Ian didn’t wear the locket on his body anymore. He had known two other women after Mari—relationships that hadn’t developed as far, but Ian had tried and had given generously of himself in those efforts. And he was a friend with one of them still. For Ian that meant she was one of the few female non-relatives he would have social interactions with, once every month or so meeting up with her for lunch or to catch a movie. Instead of further relationships, for the last two years Ian had focused on his career, begun a paying job as computer programmer, quickly graduated to database administrator. Ian was a good man, a benefit to society; he just wasn’t the hero of anyone else’s story.

He read about heroes. His favorite author was Rafael Sabatini, and Ian loved the man’s historical fictions and their movie adaptations, especially Scaramouche and Captain Blood. Ian’s closest friends were comic book geeks, video game addicts, even members of reenactment societies. Ian was attracted to—what Neil had once called—artsy women: photographers, painters, poets. And nurses! If the women were observing, creating, or saving life, Ian tended to notice them. He rarely went beyond noticing them. Much like the locket, it was enough for Ian that these women were out there… close at hand. Ian was not a shy man, but he was an introvert, very comfortable with—and needing—his own company more than any other. If there was something larger in life planned for him, for that plan to ever resolve, Ian needed to be physically and mentally nudged out of the grooves he had worn himself into.

Then, out of the bluest portion of the hotel room, Ian had told Neil, "I’m going to catch a flight to Visby today—and then check out Gotland on my own. I’ll fly back here Wednesday and meet up with you and Oscar."

Neil barely believed it, was convinced it was a dream created by his high-fever. But Ian already had booked an airline ticket, was busy packing a subset of his own traveling gear for his journey, and he had prepaid for Neil to have two more nights at this hotel room.

Neil had sat up then and, oddly, had tried to talk Ian out of it. "I was kidding about you going." Had Neil been less sick at the time, he might have made a more-convincing argument, might have had the resolve to better express his concern. But, while Neil had been getting his recovery sleep, Ian had laid out a very reasonable two-day itinerary for the both of them, separate activities they could both enjoy and agree upon. And they did. Neither one of them expected that Ian—quiet, reserved Ian Strand, the introvert, on the first real venture where he had ever shown any true initiative—was about to die.

~~~~

Chapter 2: Moor Stepper

Things had started well. Ian was at the Stockholm Arlanda Airport by ten o’clock. He felt his blood pumping, although his venture plans were all kinds of ordinary. Check-in, the inevitable waiting time, pre-flight testing, boarding, and passenger seating had been completed by 11:10. Ian had used most of that time reviewing place names and common Swedish phrases.

Do you have everything?

He rechecked his inventory. He wore his Tilley Organic-Airflo hat, casual summer clothing, and sneakers. As his carry-on, Ian had packed his camera bag to overflowing. It held his camcorder, tablet computer, toiletries, two bottles of water in a side pocket, pens, notebook, a svenska–engelska pocket guide, his passport, beef jerky, wallet, polarized clip-ons for his glasses, and a few other things he might need. He didn’t carry a cell phone nor had he ever owned one. His tablet, though, had standard Wi-Fi capability, and Ian had purchased a limited cellular data plan for it, which would function throughout most of Scandinavia giving him 30 days of Internet access or until he exhausted his data allocation. The data plan would be more than enough for him to send basic emails, blog a travel journal, and upload low-resolution footage. Ian was using the service now to touch base with Neil Lorenz—still in bed—and who, unlike Ian, had always owned the latest generation of flip-phone, Smartphone, or genius-watch.

Ian’s luggage was one backpack, acquired though crowd sourcing (he was an early contributor helping to fund his sister Jacey’s college engineering project). The pack was designed to hold lightweight camping gear and one complete change of clothing—and the bag itself could separate into sections. Reconfigured and joined with Velcro, these could be inflated by mouth into a sleeping pad. His water-resistant blanket was rolled and attached at the bottom of the pack with snaps. Fully equipped in this manner, Ian weighed 230 pounds, and he was 190 pounds of that. The 225-kilometer plane trip to Gotland from Stockholm had taken about an hour, and, by one o’clock, Ian was off and adventuring on foot toward Visby.

Though he had a predetermined path to the city and had guessed at the approximate time it would take to see everything he wanted, Ian was already deviating. He felt a singleness of purpose. He had gone off on his own, his first step towards living in the moment. But Ian had needed some planning—a structuring of the chaos—in order to convince himself to go at all. But now that he was out here, beholding to no one and with no set routine, he was capable of going anywhere. So, at least for the next two days, he meant to live.

He hiked 3.5 kilometers—however far that is in miles. Ian—on vacation—was refusing to convert the sign-posted distances. He was an American. He would just follow the road from the airport until it became a medieval town. However far away it was in miles, the town would also be there in kilometers… eventually.

Visby had an advertised population of nearly 24,000, but, already at the end of June, the road traffic—including many bicycles—felt heavy, and Ian feared summer tourists were canned between the city walls like sardines. Just seeing that initial throng of people as he stepped within sight of Visby enticed Ian to turn around. Separated by language and culture, and well beyond his comfort level, Ian—the more daring on-vacation Ian—stuck it out, kept living in the moment. His natural desire to flee… compromised: instead of entering the city immediately, he veered off, began reconnoitering along its outer walls—as he imagined a foreign spy might do when gathering intel. Two miles of stonework surrounded the inner city. Ian traversed it clockwise, made a game of it. He swiveled the microphone on his camcorder to face him, and he began filming, narrating as he skulked along.

At first, he whispered with a grave, broken voice, "Neil, this is Ian. I’m on the outskirts of Visby at the northeastern corner. I’m dressed as a peasant farmer; there’re lots of ‘us’ out here carrying bundles or drawing wagons to the gate. But the merchants inside… won’t let us all in. They’re Germans, members of the Hanseatic League. They’re afraid of farmers; afraid if we find out just how wealthy this city’s become, we will storm the place. But look at these walls, pale limestone, solid and thick, 40, 50 feet tall. There are 27 standalone towers and nine saddle towers, which are ten, 20 feet taller than and built right onto the walls. I’m going in closer to scout for weaknesses."

Ian pressed the pause button then stood to consult the travel-guide for more colorful details. He toggled pause again to resume. "I’m heading east then south. These walls look 700 years old but are still strong as legacy. I haven’t seen guards, but there’s room enough on top of these towers to build fires to heat sand or water to dump on us. There’s no cover outside against their archers. It’s all scrub and grass; some bushes near the wall have barely enough shade for a dog. Up ahead, there’s a fountain—tourists. I’m stepping wide of ’em.

"This wooden structure here, this is the Mynthus, where they collect taxes and tolls. I doubt there’s any real money inside; it’s just a staging area built against the wall. It might hold some secret way inside the city, but that seems… too obvious.

"Oh, and this section bulging out of the wall here is Smörasken, which means The Butter Box. But there’s no butter here, Neil. See those slots, how they line up along the rest of the wall? Heavy crossbowmen, lots of flanking firepower against any forward assault we might muster. I’m moving on. See how this tower is shaped: arched to a point, all cathedral-like? And it’s wide open; there’s a direct path inside. Iron grating in the archway must drop down as needed. This looks like an add-on, some afterthought portal to provide access to drinking water. Getting to fresh water is their weakness, Neil. This town will dry up fast when we set siege to it.

"Ah, there you go. See how this next tower is roofed in wooden shakes? They call it Dalmanstornet, the Tower of Dalman. I don’t know him but this smells like granary to me. Setting the roof up there on fire would cause serious problems. What? No. Nej, jag… I am shooting… en film och prata till kameran. Jag är amerikan. Ja, ja, tack."

Ian aimed his camera at an older couple who waved back stupidly and smiled a few seconds before walking off.

That was close, Ian said, and then he resumed his graven narration voice. "They believed me. We’re okay. Just… let me catch my breath. Hhaah. Okay. Ian started laughing. Cut. Edit that."

He then zoomed and brought a squat tower into focus. "Here’s the Money Box. It bows out here into this caponier and ground trenching. Ian panned the camera along the way he had come. See how it lines up with The Butter Box? They’re paired off. This is an alleyway of death. This is how and where they protect the grain and that path to the water hole." Ian stopped filming. Although enjoying himself, he had begun to feel guilty. This was the sort of role-playing he and Neil normally created together. And while he hadn’t made Neil sick, he also hadn’t stayed behind with him.

Where was the happy in between? Ian wondered. Do you do things and regret them or don’t you and regret not doing them? A few seconds wasted away. I guess do them. Ian had plenty of regrets the other way—following his natural inclinations.

Ian had needed to see this city. He was a geek for all things Viking. Stan Lee and Jack Kirby and Stan’s brother Larry Lieber at Marvel Comics had kindled that love of Vikings in him. Ian’s Dad had stored some early Thor comics down in the basement of their house where Ian was growing up. And—while hardly a quality source of mythology—the comics had tapped into the raw mythical power and had taken Ian along for the ride. And though little of this ancient city actively spoke of Vikings, the Vikings had lived here before the walls; they had laid the city’s foundation. Ian even knew the name Visby was a compound of Vés and by—Vé’s City. Vé was one of Óðinn’s lesser-known brothers. His name meant temple or pagan sacrifice. The tallest buildings inside Visby were cathedrals or the ruins of churches.

Ian rotated the microphone to face forward. He decided—for the rest of the video—he would just film and enter the city from the south. He and Neil could dub in an amusing soundtrack later. All Ian needed now were good, steady shots of the place.

Next up was Österport, the east gate. Ian panned the camera, focused briefly on a woman standing in a shopping center, and then pointed along the city road that led inside. The next-in-line structure was Kvarnfornet, the Mill Tower. The travel guide claimed it held three hand-turned querns—each on a different floor. In ancient times, maidens would grab an attached pole and rotate the heavy millstones to grind malt and farm grains. The School Gate was next, then the Tar Boiler’s House. Ian wasn’t sure how boiled tar had been used. It wouldn’t have been dumped on invaders; any survivors could use